The Queen is dead. An icon’s cracked.
Even those, shrugging the regal pomp,
The privilege of birth and blood,
Sense the sharp jolt. They may not grieve
Her dying but, with her decease,
The dusty veil, long slung over
Separate griefs, is wrenched away.
The lid, boxing private troubles,
Lifts, slips askew. Resolve dissolves.
The Queen is dead. What else might die?
Old certainties tremble. And yet

A rainbow spans the glooming sky.
Sunshine ticks the keep at Windsor.
Those who follow the ancient lore
Understand the sure drift of things.
The alchemy of healing starts
With pain shown, hurt confessed, guilt owned.
The Queen by dying has bequeathed
A new order if we but dare
To map her pattern. Service bonds
The servant and the served. A rainbow
Is no arc when viewed from heaven;
It is a circle, whole, entire.
Thus might we all be roped with hope.